Never Look Back
by Yvetal
Summary: Who says Star Trek can't be romantic? (Set in an ideal season 13 in which certain people never left. Some SPOILERS) Please R&R?
1. Chapter 1

1

Things were not going well for Spencer Reid this week. For one thing, a notorious unsub, the Orange County Strangler, had gotten away with a total of two murders while he failed to see the pattern in dump sites, which eventually led to the arrest of a middle-aged man far later than it should have happened. Upon his return from the headache-inducing case, he found his desk completely overtaken by the night shift, who had decided it was the best place to dump forgotten files as they cleaned out their lockers. Finally, he returned home to find that the package Garcia had helped him to order from Amazon had been rained on and thoroughly soaked through, leaving three 1950-era editions of some Arthur Conan Doyle classics warped and damaged beyond repair.

Hanging up the phone after a lengthly and rather gruelling conversation with the seller, he collapsed face-first onto the sofa, quietly flicking through the wrinkled pages of the novellas abandoned on the floor. He imagined what his mother might say if she sabfore ruined lumps of paper and cheap leather. That is, if she could remember enough to be angry.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he hissed several uncivilized words before pulling it out, expecting another case. Fortunately, it was only a reminder that his Star Trek club would be having their weekly viewing that Saturday at 12:30. He punched out the words "Will be there." and slid the device to the far side of his coffee table, where it couldn't bother him. Rolling over to stare at the ceiling, he wished himself and the team an uneventful Friday. He hadn't been to the club in over a month.

The week came to a screeching halt, with its final hours dedicated to writing their reports on the Strangler. At 5:30p.m., Rossi invited them to pack up their desks and join him for a drink in O'Keefe's. Reid reluctantly joined, after Morgan heckled him non-stop about putting his 'nerd stuff' above the team. He'd just mentioned not wanting to be hung over come Saturday morning, and to his relief JJ fought his corner. He managed to escape after only two drinks, and caught a cab home.

When the next morning dawned, he woke up strangely energized, made a light breakfast, and picked out his favourite waistcoat for the event. He had two unread texts on his phone, one from Bret telling him that they were to watch _The Motion Picture_ that afternoon, and another, also from Bret, after he decided to inform him that they had rented out a screen at a local theater for the event. His ancient phone was incapable of even opening the map attached, but Spencer knew the area, and dashed out the door lest he miss the trailers.

Twenty-five people were already seated, scattered about the red velvet seats in small groups, when he arrived. More than double the usual attendance. Marty, a middle-aged man with thick-rimmed glasses and everlasting stubble, waved him over, and Spencer settled into the seat behind him. Fifth row from the front and to the left. Perfect.

"Good crowd." Marty observed loudly, peering about at the other members. Several had brought guests, and his watery eyes lingered on one or two longer than Spencer was comfortable with.

He cleared his throat. "So...how'd we end up here?"

"Huh?" Marty tore his eyes away from Greg's wife to look at him. "Oh, Bret's cousin manages this place. He said we could use it for the movies real cheap and of course we took him up on that."

"I see." He opened his mouth to ask something else, but Marty had already set his sights on a new victim. A redhead this time. She looked about uncertainly before fixing her glasses and stomping up the stairs. Marty whistled, and her face twisted into a scowl. She did not stop until she reached the back row, and shuffled right up against the far wall.

"Can practically see her hiney with her skirt that short." Marty did not whisper. The newcomer looked right at them and gave the bird. Spencer had the good breeding to look ashamed. Marty did not. He muttered something vulgar before turning away.


	2. Chapter 2

2

She slammed her infamous blue file shut and huffed as the idle chime echoed across the desolate meeting room. It was 10p.m. and her final video conference had wrapped with her promising the client _more, more_ and _more._ She was being worked to the bone as it was, and a new group of trainees would land within two months.

"No rest for the wicked." She grumbled, downing the last of her water and hefting the empty bottle at the trash can by the wall. It hit the plaster with a hollow sound and bounded in successfully. At the same time, one of the newbies stumbled through the door.

"I'm sorry." He stammered, juggling his laptop and notebook ungraciously and dropping them down onto the table. "But I just have a few questions…"

It was well past midnight by the time she locked her bicycle into place outside her building. She had hurried home, and a thin film of sweat clung unpleasantly to every inch of her body. She wiped the fog off her lenses and yawned. It was high time for a shot of whiskey and a good read, so much so that she almost fell up the steps to the front door. Shoving her slender hand into her mailbox, she deduced that it was filled with nothing but junk and let the flap slap shut loudly.

Her phone hummed as the elevator trundled up to the fourth floor, and she struggled with her backpack searching for it. A voice message from her friend back home, detailing his escapades in vivid detail. She giggled at his familiar sarcastic tone as the doors hissed open. Her keys had found their way under her clothes somehow, and she twisted her wrist every which way pulling them out.

The next message was a text from Bret, inviting her to a club meeting at Jake's place. She bit her lip and slouched against the doorframe. After the last screening, she had ducked out quickly, too anxious to speak to any of the members, and too intimidated by some of the stairs to even say 'hello'. She had probably made impression, and they probably didn't want to see her again…

She shook herself. No. She had been in this city too long without friends. An effort needed to be made.

 _Cool. Plz send addr._

She stared at the home screen for a while afterwards, wondering if new friends were really worth all of this. Then came a pitter-patter beyond the door and she grinned.

"I'm _hoo-ooome!"_

Jake and Marlene's home was a veritable mansion; eight bedrooms, five bathrooms, a kitchen/diner bigger than her entire apartment, a pristine white parlour and a beige living room. They saw their guests into the latter, and she managed to get a whole chaise to herself.

"I, uh...brought this." She mumbled, offering the bottle of wine she had carefully chosen just an hour before. Marlene took it with a taut smile and disappeared into the kitchen, only to return with a bowl of popcorn and not a wine glass in sight.

 _I suppose it is a tad early to start drinking._

One by one, the other members started to file in, and she managed to strike up a conversation with one of the girls about the negative effects of the Federation on the cultures that it absorbed. Actually, it was more of a debate, which soon catapulted them into stony silence. She pulled out her phone and sent a meme to her friends back home.

A chair scraped into place by her and she started. The newcomer smiled shyly.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you."

"No - I mean… It's fine. I was in a world of my own."

"Any good?"

"Huh?"

"Your world?"

"Oh...em…" She checked her notifications. Empty. "That remains to be seen."

He cleared his throat. "I'm Spencer, by the way."

"Rósín."

"Raw-shin?"

She winced. "No…'row' as in 'row a boat' and 'sheen' as in...um…"

"Like the table?" He indicated the glass top.

"Yeah."

It took a few tries, and he kept stressing the second syllable instead of the first, but Spencer got it eventually. They both got a good laugh out of his terrible ear. And he accepted a glass of the wine she'd brought.

"So I take it you're not from Washington?"

Roisin made a face. " _Dublin."_

"Isn't that where Yeats is from?"

She guffawed. "He just spun in his grave. No. He was born in Dublin, but is home was in Sligo."

"...Wilde?"

"Yes."

"Joyce?"

"Yes."

"Berkeley?"

"Kilkenny."

He paused.

"Le Fanu, Stoker, Beckett, Brennan, Enright, Shaw…" She listed, counting each one off on her fingers.

He stared.

"Sorry I'm being a know-it-all." She took a gulp of wine.

Spencer blushed. "No! No! Actually I… It's strange for _me_ not to be the know-it-all in the situation."

They laughed. A brief, airy chuckle. Roisin praised her decision not to give up on the club so soon. She arranged her skirt daintily before asking: "So is it _The Wrath of Khan?"_

He blinked. Then looked about. No-one seemed inclined to load anything into the idling DVD player. "I didn't ask. I think Marty said they were planning on screening the season finale of _Discovery_."

Roisin rolled her eyes.

"Not a fan?"

"It's fine its just...I don't view it as a genuine _Trek_ series."

His smile widened and they said at once: " _Bald Klingons!"_

"They look awful!"

"I know, right!"


	3. Chapter 3

The team had been called to Wyoming to investigate the disappearance of five young men, all within the space of a month. One of them - a graduate student - had washed up among the reeds of a local river not far from his family home, mutilated. Everyone feared that the others had met - or would meet - a similar fate.

For Reid it was a simple solve. The killer was taking them somewhere out of town, forcing them to do hard labour, as the soft tissue damage shown in the victim's hands indicated, and then disposing of them when they were no longer of use. Poor Marcus Dobson had broken his ankle just a few days prior to his demise, and promptly been put down with a bullet.

As the others sifted through their papers, he flipped through pages. He had already told them what he thought, so now they were just preparing to present their case to the police. He knew what he was going to say and there was no point in -

"Hey! Genius!" Morgan threw a crumpled-up wad of paper at him. "What are you reading that's so much more interesting than our case?"

Prentiss prodded the slim book up with her pen. " _In a Glass, Darkly_ by J. Sheridan Le Fanu… I didn't think you were into ghost stories, Reid."

He shrugged. "Someone from my Trek club let me borrow it."

"Sure they're not too scary for you?" Morgan jeered.

"Actually, they provide an interesting insight into 19th century European folklore."

"You say that now, but don't you come crawling into bed with me when you can't sleep tonight."

Reid paused mid-flick to eye him. "Nothing is more horrific than your snoring."

This time, it was an elastic band that shot through the air to hit him in the hand. He hissed and threw the book down. "Fine, I'll help!"

He had been right, of course. After the second (or first) victim was found at the bottom of a lake, they traced the river upstream until they found a cluster of farms. A bit of poking around led them to the highly-unstable and wheelchair-bound Dennis Smith, who still had the remaining three men working in his fields in their underwear when Hotch and JJ knocked at 10p.m. The farmer was taken in and admitted without coercion to 'recruiting' the others, and the BAU were sent home. Reports were filed, the rest of the week sailed past, and they were invited to Garcia's for dinner Friday evening. The hefty helping of Mexican food and tequila pushed onto him by Morgan left him bedridden all of Saturday morning, but he managed to surface in time to make it to Marty's for that week's viewing of the finale of _Deep Space Nine_ and subsequent quiz. He stumbled in the door as the opening credits ended, and found himself faced with a difficult decision. Two people had saved seats for him: Marty and Roisin. Spencer wavered for just a few seconds before making his decision.

Marty was not pleased with him. The glares he shot from his armchair did not take a genius to read. At one point he pulled out the question cards and, as Spencer watched, made several adjustments. Determined not to be phased, he focused fixatedly on the screen.

Sure enough, when the time came to compete, Marty chose the teams. Spencer was inevitably paired with Roisin, who he smiled encouragingly at, only to find that she had deduced the older man's intentions as well. She did not look impressed.

"I have chosen a specific topic for each team to be questioned on," Marty announced. "For Jake and Marlene: Federation ships. For Bret and Mike: Klingon customs. Hannah and Cal: The Dominion War. And finally… Spencer and Roisin: Cardassia."

Spencer swore internally. Not only had they been given the toughest topic, but he was certain Marty had tailored the topic to ensure their defeat. Only people who had read the novels really knew anything about the show's xenophobic reptilian race. He glanced at Roisin again.

"Why are you _smiling?_ "

She winked. "I got this."

She did indeed, have it. They won by five points, and Marty was forced to present each of them with a $20 gift card for Barnes and Noble, and Spencer was delighted to see that Roisin was not above gloating, albeit silently.

After saying his goodbyes to the other members, he found her loitering in the hall. She had her coat on and her phone out, despite not having said a word to any of the other members.

"You're leaving?"

Her head snapped up. "Spencer! Yeah I… I thought I'd give them a traditional Irish Goodbye."

"What's that?"

"Leaving without saying anything."

He didn't need to ask why. "What are you Googling?"

"How did you -"

"You were glancing between the card and your phone and mouthing some words."

"I think Bret mentioned you were a psychiatrist."

"Psychologist."

"Right. Do you know where I can find one of these?" She pushed the gift card toward him.

He laughed. "They're everywhere!"

The card disappeared into her pocket. " _Oh._ "

 _And how was she supposed to know that?_ He scolded himself. "There's um… there's one just on Georgia Avenue."

Roisin blinked up at him.

"It's on the way to my place." It was not. "I'm going that way anyway." He was not. "I could give you a ride if you want?"

He saw the blush creep into her cheeks, and shuffled his feet.

"That'd be great, thanks."


	4. Chapter 4

4

Roisin imagined what her mother might say if she knew her daughter had taken a lift off a strange man. In truth, she had been anxious buckling into Spencer's passenger seat. After all, she had only met him twice. Yet here she was, lending him books, letting him drive her around. He could be a serial killer, or something worse. And this was probably a bad idea.

Then he had put his keys into the ignition, and she had seen how his hand shook, and understood that he was just as uncertain about her. She decided that he was probably like her; just a little bit lonely, and trying to reach out. They drove to the store in awkward silence, broken only by the trundling of the old Volvo. When he finally parked outside their destination, she forced a grin.

"Well, thanks for the lift."

"Don't mention it."

Their seatbelts clicked in unison.

"Oh, you're coming in?"

"Yeah, I want to look around, too."

She swung the door open and hopped out. "Well, come on then."

They went their separate ways initially, Roisin lingering by the tellers as she watched Spencer hike up the stairs to the sciences. She had half a mind to follow him, but decided not to act desperate, and sauntered off alone. They ended up meeting up again among the classics, where he eyed her picks scrupulously.

"Expensive books."

She stood, a hardback volume in each hand, and sighed. "They called out to me."

"Haven't you read either of these?"

"Yes. Both."

"Then why do you want -"

"They're pretty."

His eyebrows shot up. "You buy books because they're _pretty_?"

"Yeah, what else am I going to decorate my shelves with?"

Spencer's disgust was palpable, so much so that she spluttered with laughter.

"You're joking?"

"Yes." She admitted. "I just like to...collect nice editions of my favourite books."

"Oh...good."

Róisín joined Spencer as he perused a bit more, having decided to purchase both books - she _did_ have a voucher, after all. She found his method of selection amusing; first he would draw his finger along a particular shelf, lightly tapping on the spines of those that piqued his interest. Eventually, he would pull one down, fly through the chapter, and give a one-word review.

"Cliché."

"Mundane."

"Intriguing."

" _Wrong."_

When he finally selected new textbook on quantum theory, he held it to his chest and grinned. "What?"

She turned on her heel. "Nothing."

Finally checked out, she led the way to the car, only to pause at the door. He had never offered to drive her home.

Did she _want_ him to drive her home?

Spencer strode right past her and got into the driver's seat. It took a long while for him to see her and roll down the window.

"I was um… Going to get some coffee."

Again, silence stretched into the void.

"Are you inviting me?"

"Yes?"

"Oh. Sure."


	5. Chapter 5

5

The weekend could not have gone better. A trip to the bookstore had turned into a two hour coffee, which had turned into a stroll around the park, and he had driven her home in comfortable silence. Turned out she lived not far from the BAU, and she let him know that her office was, in fact, just a block away. Thus followed a silence in which both of them failed to say whatever it was they wanted to say, and then she was gone.

Spencer recalled all of this as the pulled into his parking spot and took the elevator up to be BAU, a stupid grin plastered across his face. He even caught himself humming and ceased _immediately_.

That day's double homicide did not quash his merriment, nor did the murder-suicide left on his desk two days later. Then, on Thursday, he told Morgan.

"I'm thinking about joining a gym."

His friend choked on his coffee. "You _what?_ "

"I need to start getting some exercise." Spencer explained, gripping his non-existent bicep for emphasis.

Morgan leaned across the table. "Who is she?"

"Who?"

"In all the years I've known you, after all the times I offered to show you the ropes, you're choosing to get fit _now?"_

"Yes."

"I'll ask again: _who is she?"_

He shifted in his chair, looking down at his flimsy hands. "There is no 'she'. That's the problem."

Derek's eyes widened. " _Oooh_. Well I know a few girls -"

"No." Spencer cut him off. He knew Morgan's type, and knew he wasn't interested in that. "I...I just need the confidence to do it on my own."

Derek studied him for a minute. "Okay. You can come with me to the gym on Saturday and I'll help you put together a routine."

"But on Saturdays I have -"

"Your nerd meetings. I know. We're going Saturday _morning._ 0800 hours."

Spencer groaned, yet could not conceal his smile. He'd gotten Morgan to do exactly what he wanted.

If there wasn't already a law against getting up early on a Saturday, Spencer was going to enact one. Even his car groaned and yawned underneath him as he pulled into the cramped parking lot next to Morgan's gym. Two hulking men came out the door as he got his bag from the trunk, and watched with amusement as he went through the door. Derek was waiting for him already, and groaned when he walked in.

"You look like a librarian."

"I was going to change here!" Spencer retorted, brandishing his brand-new sports bag full of brand-new athletic attire.

"Fine, just _quickly._ Before these guys home in on you."

"Believe me, seeing me in this will act as more of an accelerant than a deterant."

"Just get going!"

He looked dumb. The saggy sweatpants and lycra t-shirt only emphasised how awkward and bony he was, and his hair...he didn't know what to do with his hair. It wasn't long enough to tie back, but he didn't want it getting in his eyes. Perhaps he should have gelled it back? Or maybe a hairband? No, Morgan would never let him hear the end of it if he wore a hairband. He would just have to deal with it. He liked the trainers, though. They were light and soft and breathable. He bounced a bit on his toes. Yep, he liked these shoes.

Derek stifled a laugh as he walked out, but that was okay. It was odd seeing Spencer Reid out of his signature wardrobe, he knew. When he swiped his visitor's card and entered among all of the machines and toned bodies, that's when he hesitated.

A light shove between his shoulder blades helped. "Just remember, Reid. Everyone here is just doing their own thing. Most of 'em won't even look at you."

Derek had been right, the majority of the people around them were far too absorbed in their own workouts to even notice them as they walked around. Sure, there were a few curious glances, but people turned away after a second lest they lose count of their reps, or whatever. Spencer actually managed to learn a lot, and Morgan was surprisingly patient with him, allowing him to select his own weights, and allowing to try as much - or as little - as he wanted.

The rowing machine was the worst. The absolute worst. It hurt every inch of his body, but Spencer pushed himself through an entire 'set' before collapsing on it in a heap of gangly limbs. Derek patted him on the back.

"Nice try, kid. Take a break, I'll be right back." He hurried for the restroom.

Still huffing, he reclined back, sweat dripping down his face. Maybe he would try yoga, or even -

"Spencer?"

"Roisin!" He attempted to stand, only to flop back down onto the stool. "I didn't expect to see you here!"

She patted her damp hair. "Same...this is the only place near my house with a pool."

Spencer ran his towel over his face and hair. "Did you know that swimming is the most effective way to improve lung capacity. In Germany they did an experiment using three subjects - one swimming, one jogging and one cycling - in order to better understand the effects of these exercises on the heart and lungs -"

"Yeah, I...I think I read that study."

"You did?"

"Uh-huh. Listen, Spencer; are you going to the meeting today?"

"Of course, why?"

"Oh...no reason." Her eyes widened. "Your friend is coming back. I-I better go…"

She scampered off without so much as a 'goodbye'.

Morgan came striding up, a grin plastered across his face. "Who was that?"

Spencer shrugged, flushing a spectacular shade of pink. "She just wanted to know where the convenience store was."

"Did you get her number?"

"No."

This earned a pat on the shoulder. "You've a lot to learn, Kid."


	6. Chapter 6

6

Of all the times and places, she just _had_ to run into him after her swim session. Roisin contemplated her fate as she applied her makeup and dressed for that afternoon. Her hair had been damp, she had been flushed and sweaty, even after showering, and she was sure he had seen the zit forming on her chin. She applied a generous layer of concealer to the offending blemish.

To make up for that morning's shortcomings, she overdressed for the club meeting: a white summer dress with dyed roses, a new black cardigan, and her favourite dress boots. She even repainted her nails. Let him think she was going out afterwards. Perhaps on a date?

She turned in the mirror, and stopped. If he thought she was going on a date, how would she react? Would it put him off? Or intrigue him? Tugging at the hem of her skirt, she debated: was she acting too desperate?

A horn beeped outside. Her Uber. She sighed. No time for second guesses.

The torch had passed to Bret for this meeting, unluckily for all. Bret lived in a one-bedroomed apartment on the north side of the city. Clean as it was, it was cramped, and they all had to sit near on top of one another. Roisin fretted as the room filled up, and the others closed in around her. Spencer was late. Should she save a seat? Would that be too obvious? Or not obvious enough? Marlene sat next to her and she groaned inwardly. Too late.

Spencer arrived a minute later, hair and shirt in disarray, he threw his bag down by the door before realising the only seat left was a single chair by the window. For a second, his eyes went to her, and Roisin knew she should have trusted her gut. Without a word, he slouched over and plopped into his seat.

They were forced to watch what people claimed were 'the three worst episodes in history', which Roisin thoroughly enjoyed. Afterwards, everyone fell into debate, and she sat quietly, listening to the different opinions being thrown around the room.

"Roisin?" Marlene said, causing her to jump out of her skin.

"Wh-what?" She responded.

Marlene looked down her nose at her. "...Thoughts on _These are the Voyages?_ "

Roisin took a moment to think. "I don't think it deserves to be called the _worst_ episode."

"Why?"

"Well I don't like it, don't get me wrong. And it was a lazy ending to a poorly thought out series, but _Enterprise_ alone had far worse episodes."

"Such as?"

"...Too many to choose."

"You mean you can't name any." Marty scoffed.

She bristled. "Excuse me if I don't know the name of every episode by heart."

"Because they're so hard to learn."

"I don't know all of the titles, either." Spencer chimed in.

Roisin beamed at him. He let his hair fall over his face as he inspected his fingernails.

Marty glared at him. "Yeah but you're…"

" _I_ didn't know it was a competition." Spencer said, eyeing him unyieldingly.

The older man threw his arms up. "And maybe if I wore a skirt up to my fanny, you'd agree with me!"

Roisin's jaw dropped. "How _dare_ you!"

Everyone froze in the face of her wrath, watching as she stood and gathered her belongings.

"Never in my _life..._ :" She fumed. "Has any _pig…_ said something to _disgusting_ to me!"

The others looked on, perplexed. Until Spencer offered:

"'Fanny', um...means something different in Europe."

They turned to him, and he reluctantly gestured the meaning. Marlene gasped.

" _Marty!"_

"How in Hell was I supposed to know, they -"

Roisin did not stay to listen. Sparing Spencer what she hoped was a thankful look, she turned on her heel and burst out the door, livid.


	7. Chapter 7

Now that he had finally allowed Morgan to train him, he found himself at the gym every other day. Even after they flew to Kentucky, the other agent found the only gym in their dinky little town. Tough as the sessions were getting (now that Derek understood that his reluctance had more to do with laziness than lack of ability), he secretly enjoyed them. He saw that their friendship had benefitted from it. What was more, he had absorbed a plethora of advice on how to approach the fairer sex, both from listening to his friend, and from observing him.

"Okay but...how do I know…" He turned down the treadmill, panting. Morgan waited patiently. "How do I know if someone wants to, umm…"

An eyebrow shot up. "Wants to _what_ , Kid?"

He made a sweeping gesture. "Do anything?"

"'Anything' ?"

"Kiss or - or more."

This earned him a chuckle. "Spence, can I ask _you_ a question?"

"Sure."

"Are you a virgin?"

Suddenly the people on the other side of the gym were too close. He lowered his voice. "...No…"

Morgan leaned over the rail. "So how did you know before?"

"I didn't."

"Yeah you did. How?"

"They… They were pretty forward about it."

" _Exactly."_ Derek affirmed.

"But what if she's shy?"

"So are you. And you're _blindingly_ _obvious,_ my friend." He patted his shoulder. "Especially to a profiler."

Spencer had plenty of time to think about what had been said, as the case took over a week to solve. The killer's MO and dump sites had been varied and even - in his opinion - senseless. They only gained momentum when Prentiss mentioned that everything seemed like the actions of a scorned woman, and suddenly everything fell into place. Including the killer, who had been under their noses the whole time.

He played every interaction with Róisín over in his head night after night, applying Derek's words to them. He thought he was making sense of everything. Perhaps. Maybe. Was he wrong? When applied to himself, his profiling skills were often flawed, causing him to either exaggerate or undermine signs that would be obvious if he could only be objective. He couldn't trust himself.

"Whatcha dreaming about, Spence?"

He jolted upright at the sound of Prentiss' voice. "O-oh! Uhhh…. Nothing."

She watched as he picked up his pen and recommenced shuffling through the case file.

"Doesn't seem like nothing." His head snapped up. "You were a million miles away."

Spencer studied her, debating internally. Emily often gave him valuable advice, and he knew she wouldn't gossip afterward. But at the same time he felt silly, and what if it was all for naught?

"Reid! You're gone again!"

He blinked. "Sorry, Emily. Could I talk to you? It's ahhhh…. It's a personal matter."

Without a word, she traversed the room and brought the door to, eyes all the while on him.

"Is it your mom?"

"No, she's fine"

" _Oh._ Then what's up?"

"It's kinda silly."

"My favourite topic. Continue."

He raked his hair out of this eyes. "There's this girl…"

Her mouth formed a perfect O. "Tell me about her."

Spencer took a gulp of water and clenched the cup in his hands. "I don't know much about her. But she seems nice."

"'Nice'." Prentiss echoed, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "You like her?"

He nodded.

"You want to ask her out?"

 _Nod. Drink._

"But you're not sure."

"She's out of my league." He blurted.

Emily crossed her arms firmly, clearly annoyed. "Don't be ridiculous, Spencer."

He sighed, unable to explain.

"Have you talked to her? I mean, do you know each other?"

"Yes and yes."

"Well, how does she behave around you?"

He fidgeted with a page. "I don't know."

Hands on her hips, she chuckled. "Wow, this must be bad. Play it by me, Kiddo. I'll tell you what I think."

He told her everything, from the first time he saw her, to the most recent club meeting. Emily listened carefully until he was finished. Somehow, when he was done, Spencer felt lighter. Hearing himself speak had made things clearer in his own head, so much so that when Prentiss asked. "So what do you think you should do?" He answered immediately.

"I think I need to bite the bullet."

That very evening, he called Bret, and set things in motion. As he laid in bed afterwards, hands resting on the pit of nerves that was his stomach, he had no choice but to contemplate all of his previous encounters with women. One by one, the ghosts of his past came back to haunt him, none lingering for long, until at last Maeve came to mind. Maeve, whom he had scarcely known, how would thing have gone, if she were still alive? What would she think of Róisín?

He pressed his fists against his eyelids.

 _Not fair. Not fair. Not fair._


	8. Chapter 8

8

Roisin opened her notifications to find a text from Bret. A screening of The Wrath of Khan...at Spencer's. Her stomach lurched for some reason. Excitement? Nerves? She typed in a lazy response and tossed her phone onto the couch. As she made her dinner, she played multiple scenarios through in her head, envisioning how she might just find a way to get Spencer alone. He was the only one in the club that seemed to accept her, and she was determined to get closer to him.

But she also didn't want to make a fool of herself.

Spencer lived in an old townhouse that reeked of old carpet and damp. As Roisin climbed the stairs, a door opened, and an old lady stuck her head over the banister above. When they made eye contact she retreated back into her apartment, grumbling about youngfolk and parties in general. As soon as she slammed the door, the one next to it swung open, and Spencer peeked out.

"Hey!" He chirped, pushing it wide.

"Hi." She managed, holding out the wine she had fussed over an hour before. "I um...didn't know what you liked, so I got my dad's favourite." A nervious laugh, and her stomach twinged again. What did he care that her dad liked the damn wine? The man liked anything under $30.

He studied the bottle. "Well I've never tried this one, but I trust your father."

"You shouldn't. He mostly drinks Guinness."

He huffed out a small laugh. "Can I take your coat?"

Roisin edged awkwardly past him and shrugged off her leather jacket. Even through her nerves, she saw his eyes go wide and praised herself: the form-fitting black dress never failed to impress. Catching himself staring, Spencer turned abruptly and went to hang it up.

Jake and Marlene were already sitting on the sagging brown sofa, so she took up an armchair a comfortable distance away. They didn't even try to say 'hello'. Fine. Roisin told herself, looking at her phone. Just fine.

The only other person to join them was Bret, which was fortunate given the lack of seats, and unfortunate given how much effort Spencer had gone to to prepare. The whole kitchen had been stockpiled full of snacks, his fridge full of soda and alcohol. He went around handing each of them paper plates and bowls and insisting that they take what they want. Roisin tried her best, filling her bowl with hot cheetos and piling a haphazard assortment of candy onto her plate. Spencer poured her a generous glass of wine, and observed inquisitively as she tried each foodstuff in turn. The cheetos were alright, but very strong, and whatever they were coated in stained her fingers orange (Spencer scuttled off for napkins when he saw the disgust on her face), Hershey's kisses she knew she didn't like, but tried once more out of politeness, the twinkie was fine but could've done with some jam and a cup of tea, the sour patch kids were by far her favourite, so she put them in reserve as she picked up a twizzler.

"Well?" Spencer urged, barely sparing a glance at the screen as Khan interrogated Chekov.

Taken off guard, her face contorted. "The devil's fucking shoelace!"

To her delight, he burst out laughing.

"That is the best description I've ever heard!"

A blatant lie, but she blushed nonetheless. "You don't like them either?"

"I do, actually. But I'm weird."

"Clearly." She offered him her other one and cleansed her palette with sherbert.

As soon as the film ended, the others filed out, feigning other plans and offering their apologies. This suited Roisin down to the ground, but Spencer forlornly waved them out the door. As soon as it shut, she seemed to forget how to converse, so she began to collect the dishes.

"You don't have to do that." Spencer said, rushing over to take them from her. He plucked them out of her hand and went to dump them in the trash. She followed with the glasses, laying them gently into the sink before he could stop her. They cleaned in this way until the living room was spotless, and there was nothing left to busy their hands.

She swayed anxiously on the spot, trying to think of what to say as he straightened a pile of books on the dining table. "I um…. I won't be coming next week."

He frowned. "Vacation?"

"No."

"Oh."

"It's nothing to do with you." She went on. "It's…"

"I know."

"Things didn't go well last week."

"Oh."

Roisin took a deep. "But I'd like if we could still be friends."

His face lit up. "Of course!"

"Great." She whipped out her phone. "Are you on Facebook?"

"No."

"Instagram?"

"Nope."

"Twitter?"

"Afraid not."

"...Myspace?"

"Actually, I don't use any of those things."

"A ghost." She laughed. "What about a phone number?"

He gulped. "Yeah I have one of those."


End file.
